C.R. Terror prangs a Piper

Mobility Forum, May/Jun 2000

Let's go present position direct Sappra, Sammy m'lad, the Vice of VMC drawled, as he slowly gazed over the peaceful Sea of Japan.

"Done, Boss," the ever-ready right seater remarked. We're already cleared."

"Er, ah, of course, Sam. We'll just, uh, that is, call Plato high and check terminal weather while I prepare my approach briefing." The Omnivorous Orator continued to stammer surprised, as usual, by the efficiency of his crew.

"Reach Heaviest 859, Plato high control. Say Carrot estimated and destination airport." The radios were oddly crisp and clear, save the ever-present guard check. Why, even C.R. understood the transmission.

"I'll take it now, Sammy," the Marvelous Major Uttered. "Plato, this here's AMC's finest, and we're headed for beautiful Fun Gon Whey-by-the-sea. Be there in a couple of shakes," he drawled incomprehensibly. Long Sufferin' Sam grimaced and awaited the inevitable response.

"Say again Reach Heaviest, your transmission was totally unitelligible." "NOW see here," began the miffed Major, but Sam cut him off.

"Carrot at 09052 and expecting Romeo Kilo X-ray Zulu at 0933."

"Roger Reach, cleared to Peachy DME fix present position direct. Expect ILS Rwy 36. Weather, six octas 400 ft, eight octas 8000 ft. Wind 260 at one-two gusting two- zero.

Altimeter two niner eight five."

"Dismal," Ty muttered from the jump seat. "No sweat," quipped the Localizer Lothario, "You forget who's at the controls of this trusty bucket of bolts, Ty." Thumbing through the approach plate, C.R. eventually came to the correct page. "Ah, here it is, ILS Rwy 36, this'll be a snap. I'll just grease another one in here for grins."

Hearing C.R.'s threat, Sam, Max and Ty jerked into motion, cinching their seatbelts tighter in pavlovian preparation for another carrier landing demo by the Sultan of Sinkrate.

Amazingly, C.R. eased the Starlifter gently to earth. The awestruck crew sat in silent disbelief. All except one, of course. "Another fantastic performance, if I do say so myself," C.R. chortled. "This calls for a local specialty, a Terrorific `tini laced with "grapie" Oscar that's like cold duck for those of you new to Korea!"

"It was an incredibly average landing," remarked Ty Downs, not wishing to feed an already unbelievably inflated ego. "However, we may even join you, for a change, provided we don't have to stay overnight in the Lockheed Hilton."

"Nothing to concern yourselves about," the Lackadaisical Leader lamented, "This is the Far East, and when nothing's available onbase, there's always room at the Nusoule Hotel. You know the place, you can rock all night with the live band on the fourth floor." C.R. was becoming more covetous of his sleep in his old age.

Dawn comes early in the land of the morning calm, as C.R. discovered while brushing his teeth with "diet wrong" cola on the bread van, which was cleverly disguised as a crew bus. "Reminds me of the good o1' days when every establishment had those same signs on the wall espousing "non-portable" water. Faced with these tragic austerities, one often resorts to combat techniques," commented the King of Camouflage, still slightly nauseated by the taste of Quest toothpaste mixed with cola.

"You may drop us at the command and control tubby hole my good man. We have direction to receive," C.R. informed the driver, remembering fondly the gentle words of advice offered by Colonel Fang: Terror, you even breathe without getting permission on this trip, and you'll be flying sand to the Sahara for rest of rest of your life! The thought of endless sand dunes and 120 degree heat transformed the usually confident cretin into a sweating, drooling basket case.

"Boss, we're here," Max managed, realizing how tenuous the situation could become when C.R. suffered "Fang attack." But the Ace of Anxiety quickly recovered and was soon at the command post window, peering through the bars. Having ignored the forms 369, checked earlier by the rest of the crew, C.R. alone was surprised at the duty officer's mention of an engine run for number two.

"Criminently, why do we need an engine run? That'll eat up too much time, and we certainly can't afford a late takeoff way out here," the Epitome of Efficiency whined. "I can't spoil my unbroken string of two consecutive on-time takeoffs."

"Three in a row, Boss." chipped in Max, eager to keep things positive. "But the run won't be any problem, it's just to make sure the bleed air problem won't repeat itself." Later, flight preparations completed, the crew tracked down their fearless leader, propped precipitously on a stool in the snack bar, of course, and then proceeded to the aircraft. Surprisingly, the checklists were moving along without a hitch, and it began to appear that AMC's most famous crew would continue their longest unbroken string of timely departures.

"Starting engines check complete, engineer," Max stated, winding the checklist again.

"Before taxi, Boss?" Sammy prodded. "Yes, er, ah, of course, keep, those checklists rolling right along there, we've not a moment to lose!" C.R. really was nervous about making this takeoff on time. Engine runs never pleased him especially when it could mean another night of "I Wanna Go Stateside" accompanied by the electric viola and laser drums.